


my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand

by ladybonehollows



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Mosaic Timeline, Mutual Masturbation, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 18:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladybonehollows/pseuds/ladybonehollows
Summary: Eliot Waugh wakes one night to the sound of Quentin masturbating beside him. He doesn'tintendto join in, but...Or, the five times that Eliot and Quentin jerked off together without acknowledging it, and the one time they did.





	my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the fic I intended to write when I first had a "two boys living in the same bed who need to masturbate" fic, but then RAO took over and this is what happened.
> 
> *CW for sex acts in mutual spaces that have not been pre-discussed.

**I.**

Wakefulness teased at Eliot’s mind and he turned his face into the pillow, fighting against it. He knew without opening his eyes that the bedroom was dark, that it was late, or maybe early. He was lying on his side with one knee curled up almost to his chest, probably taking up far more of his side of the best than he should have. Straightening his legs, he rubbed his hand over his face to clear the sleep in his eyes before tucking it under his cheek, willing sleep to pull him under once more.

The quality of nighttime in Fillory was different from anything that he’d ever experienced. Or rather, at the mosaic. There were always people up and about in Whitespire, regardless of the time of day or night. The only way to make silence at Brakebills was with a silencing ward, which he’d employed more than once for a variety of reasons. One might have assumed that the nights would be quiet, back on the farm he’d grown up on in Indiana, and they’d have been right — except for the sounds of his father shouting, his mother crying, or — worse — the sounds of them making up.

It was different, here. Without the use of alcohol or drugs he’d found it difficult to sleep with anything other than silence through the years, but this wasn’t silence either. It was better than silence. On a clear night, the sounds of the wind in the trees, of the insects and night creatures created a soothing backdrop to fall asleep to.

Tonight, the smell of rain told him that they’d forgotten to close the window last night, but it certainly wasn’t the first time, and he knew that the awning above the window extended far enough that it wasn’t going to be a problem. Eliot could hear it, the gentle patter of rain on the roof, on the ground outside, and he exhaled slowly, letting himself drift again to the sound of the rain and Quentin’s breathing behind him.

He was just starting to sink back into sleep when a sharp, indrawn breath pulled him back. On the other side of the bed, Quentin let out a long, slow sigh, and then another sound reached his ears — or rather, he heard a sound start up again, something that he hadn’t really registered until now but, he realised, had been going since he’d woken. A quiet, repeated brushing.

Reluctantly opening his eyes, Eliot rolled onto his back, intending to look for the source of the sound and pausing when it ceased, along with Quentin’s breathing. Turning his head, he tried to look at him in the dark, but despite the open window, all he could catch was a slightly darker shape in the dark room. He could make out enough to know that he was still, too still, and Eliot’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what was happening.

After a few seconds he heard Quentin let out his breath and breathe in again quickly, and the frown was wiped from Eliot’s face when the rhythmic sound started again, along with another hitch of Quentin’s breathing, and he realised that… _No._ _He can’t be_, he thought, staring at Quentin’s dark form. He wished for moonlight, or any light, to be able to see what was happening. He heard another sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut again, turning his head back to face the ceiling when he felt Quentin’s body shift beside him on the bed.

Of course Quentin was going to need to jerk off. Sharing a bed made it more complicated, but they had a pretty functional unspoken system in place. More nights than not, they headed to bed at different times and rose separately, and sometimes that was due to genuine tiredness but often in was out of a necessity of privacy. It was… an experience, to sit in the only other room of their cottage reading a book by the fire or setting the kettle for breakfast, knowing that the only thing that separated himself from a masturbating Quentin was a thin wall.

And now… well, nothing separated them now.

This was so much worse. Eliot swallowed against the tightness in his throat, trying uselessly to not think about Quentin, about what he was doing. What he was doing, right there, where he could reach out his arm and touch his shoulder. Is this the first time he’d done it while they were in bed together? _Jesus Christ, has he done it before?_

He could feel himself getting hard, the soft material of his sleep pants a gentle friction against each twitch of his stiffening cock. He tried to block out the sound, to think of literally _anything_ else, but Quentin didn’t stop. Every catch in his breath pulled at something primal within him. It was barely any time at all before he was aching with it. _Just to take the edge off_, he told himself as he reached down and carefully cupped himself through his pants.

The light touch was enough to make his whole body stiffen. If Quentin noticed it, he didn’t stop, continuing the short, sharp movements that Eliot could hear but not see. Waiting until his body relaxed, Eliot gripped himself through his pants, fighting against the urge to press up into his hand. It — mmm, it felt good — but it wasn’t enough, and he slipped his hand under the waistband of his pants as surreptitiously as he could, his teeth sinking into his lower lip to keep himself quiet as he wrapped his hand around his hard cock.

Every inch of him on edge as he listened to a reaction from Quentin, he stroked himself just once — okay, twice, to ease the tension coiling him. He might even have been able to fool himself that it had worked, except for the broken little sound that came from the other side of the bed, almost like a moan, and Eliot’s hand tightened in reflex around the head of his cock.

He shouldn’t… This was such a terrible, fucked up idea, but he couldn’t help it, he was so worked up within minutes, and when Quentin’s breathing picked up he didn’t hold back anymore. Trying to be cautious, he slowly cocked his leg, flattening his foot against the mattress to lift the blanket off of his groin, cautious of the pull of it with every slow, careful stroke. 

His skin felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t believe that this was happening, that he was doing this. What would Quentin think? But all he could think about was what Quentin was _doing_. He made another muffled sound, and another, his breathing getting faster and louder and_ oh god, this isn’t going to take long at all_, he thought as the sound went right through him. He started stroking himself faster, hoping that Quentin was so caught up in chasing his own pleasure that he wouldn’t notice Eliot doing the same.

Quentin let out a whimper, his whole body trembling enough to disturb the blanket on top of them, for Eliot to feel it in the mattress beneath him, and — oh shit, he was coming, Quentin was coming right beside him, and —

And Eliot picked up his pace, fighting to keep his hips still as he stroked himself desperately, and it was Quentin’s satisfied sigh that pushed him over the edge. Heat flowed through him, bursting through every inch of him as he came hard into his own hand, warmth spilling out over his bare stomach. He pressed his lips together tightly to hold in his sound of relief but it tried to bubble out anyway, and he clapped his free hand over his mouth to catch it, biting down on the meat of his thumb to keep himself quiet as he shuddered through his release.

Breathing long and deep to try and slow his racing heart, Eliot dropped his hand onto his stomach and let his leg sink flat on the bed. It took a few seconds before he came back to himself, but all at once he was aware of how still Quentin was beside him, and… shit. He must have heard him, at least at the end, and Eliot’s mouth went dry at the thought.

When he heard Quentin whisper a clean up spell, he debated leaving the mess on his stomach if it would help convince Quentin that he hadn’t just jerked off right next to him. But first of all, gross, and secondly… well, Quentin had started it. Murmuring the spell, he traced the tut along his body with his right hand and felt his come clear away.

Quentin was still tense in the bed beside him. Eliot thought of and discarded a dozen different jokes about the whole thing that might lighten the situation, but by the time he decided that drawing attention to it probably wasn’t the best idea, Quentin had finally relaxed into sleep.

**II.**

His body warm and languid under the hot Fillorian sun, Eliot stretched out over the mosaic. He’d have killed for a daiquiri, or even just any sort of drink that was just as much alcohol as it was ice.

The view was worth it, though. Quentin was kneeling on the other edge of the mosaic, being considerably more productive than Eliot. He had a small pile of red tiles on one side and their sketched out plan for the day on the other, and Eliot watched intently as Quentin took a tile and leaned forward, supporting himself with one hand on the ground while the other stretched out to place it. Quentin stayed in that pose for a few long, delicious seconds, giving Eliot a perfect view of the curve of his ass in his tight jeans. Hadn’t he thrown those out? It didn’t matter, because Quentin looked phenomenal in them, particularly when he tensed to pull himself upright.

In the next moment, Quentin was laughing as Eliot caught his hand and pulled him into his arms, capturing his mouth and kissing him long and slow as he wound his arms around him. Quentin gripped the collar of his shirt with both hands, gasping against his lips, canting his hips up against him until he was rubbing every inch of himself against him. Blink, and there were no more layers between them, and Eliot tumbled back onto the rough tiles, thrilling at the scratch of them against his bare skin as Quentin leaned over him. His moans echoed through the clearing as Quentin worked his fingers slowly into him, deeper and deeper, curling up inside him to tease against that spot that made him lose his breath every time —

Eliot woke with a start, slicked with sweat and his cock hard and aching between his legs. His mind was still caught in the dream, in the delicious sensations that Quentin was pulling from his body, and he felt on edge with it, desperate to go back to that moment, that feeling. God, he was so desperate to be fucked.

He was lying on his stomach, one leg hitched up so he could press into the mattress. Shifting on the bed, he felt a smear of fluid on the inside of his pants and wondered whether he’d been rutting into the bed. His hips moved before he could think better of it, grinding down against the mattress and curling his hands into fists at the shiver that ran through him.

Stilling, he forced himself to catch his breath and take in his surroundings. The room was quiet, with just the steady thrum of rain and the soft sound of Quentin’s breathing. He moved against the mattress again, just slightly, just to feel it, and tried not to think about his dream.

About the way Quentin had felt against him, his skin smooth and warm from the sun, his hands firm and sure as they spread him open and oh, his _mouth_. About the fact that the person in those dreams was the one person that he spent almost every minute with, who was lying beside him right now. About how easy it would be to just… to do what was in his dream, to just walk over to Quentin tomorrow or the day after or the day after that and tear his clothes off, to close his mouth over his and kiss him until neither of them could think anymore.

He wasn't thinking about those things at all when he pressed down against the mattress again.

So. Okay. He'd had a sex dream, and now he had a boner. It certainly wasn't the first time. It wasn't even the first time that it had happened while in bed with Quentin. It _was_ the first time it had happened since… well, since that other time.

That time when he'd woken up to the sound of Quentin rubbing one out next to him.

A week had passed, and neither of them had mentioned it. Quentin hadn’t even been awkward about it the next day. Had he thought he'd imagined it? Maybe he hadn't heard him, hadn't realised.

Maybe it had been a dream.

Maybe that was the most unrealistic thought he’d had since they'd decided to stay and solve this puzzle.

The pressure of the mattress against his cock was too good for him to ignore it. Eliot rolled onto his side as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb Quentin. He could just go back to sleep, and it would be fine. Or he could go to the other room, or outside even, and relieve the tension.

It was a cold, wet night though, and windy enough to rattle the shutters despite knowing they were tied firmly closed, and the last thing he wanted was to go out in that. The other room was the more realistic option, although he’d let the fire burn down to embers last night, and the room had most likely lost most of its heat. And besides, it was _warm_ under the blankets. He should just stay here and try to calm down enough to get back to sleep.

Or…

Rolling onto his back, he looked over at Quentin, at his peaceful sleeping form, barely visible in the dark.

_Fuck it._ If Quentin could do it…

Returning his gaze to the ceiling, Eliot slipped his hand into his pants, his breath catching at the feeling of his hand wrapping around his cock. Pulling it out of his pants, he stroked himself slowly, softly. He had to make it quick, he knew that, but he couldn’t help but take a moment to sink into the relief of the friction.

He didn’t have to be as obvious as Quentin had been. Slowly, he stroked from the tip to the base and back again, and then let his hand linger there, squeezing lightly at the head. Focusing on keeping his breathing even, he teased his fingers again and again over the tip, pausing to rub and press at his frenulum with his fingertips. The attention on that sensitive spot sent a shiver through him that he tried to resist. He splayed his other hand across his chest, rubbing at his nipple with his thumb and then pinching it between his thumb and his forefinger.

He was so lost in the sensation that he wasn’t sure when Quentin woke up, or if he’d been awake the whole time after all. He did notice when Quentin squirmed on the bed.

Was he… no, he couldn’t be, not again. But the sound of skin against fabric, skin against skin, was distinct in the quiet of their bedroom, and Eliot squeezed his eyes shut. _Jesus Christ, Quentin, are you trying to _kill _me?_ But it was only what he’d done the last time, wasn’t it?

Eliot tightened his fingers around himself and let out his breath sharply through his nose. _No_, he reminded himself. He had to be quiet. He had to… He stroked himself, just over the head, and the perfect timing of Quentin's stuttered breath spiked the pleasure in him just as much as the touch of his hand.

They shouldn't be doing this. They shouldn't… not without talking about it first, right? He should stop, despite the whine that caught in his throat merely at the thought. But then Quentin let out a sigh, as obvious as Eliot forced himself to acknowledge he must be right now, and… if he'd joined in tonight knowing that Eliot was already doing it, and knew that Eliot had done it last week…

Keeping his movements slow, he gave himself a full stroke, and then another, and tried to keep his breathing even.

It didn’t take long. He was already worked up from his dream, and knowing Quentin was touching himself beside him… it was only minutes before he felt that tension building deep inside him. He sped up his hand, focusing on rubbing over the head to keep his movements minimal as he worked himself closer and closer until his body stiffened, white hot pleasure ricocheting through him.

Eliot’s heart had barely stopped pounding in his ears before he heard the quiet little choked off sound that Quentin made, followed a few seconds later by a heavy sigh as he settled again against the bed. It was the most obvious thing that Eliot had heard in his life.

Was he louder than he thought, too? Was he more subtle, and it was just a coincidence that Quentin had started jerking off too? Was he really trying to fool himself into thinking that?

He’d already cleaned up, a lazy flutter of his fingers as he was coming down from his orgasm. He listened to Quentin cast the spell before letting out another satisfied sigh, burrowing into the mattress and tugging the blankets up higher.

_Okay. Okay._ Eliot lay still for a few minutes before he rolled back onto his side, his back to Quentin, staring sightlessly at the wall. There was no chance he was getting back to sleep any time soon.

_What the hell are you doing, Quentin Coldwater? Fuck, what am _I _doing?_

**III.**

Trying to ease the protest of his tired muscles, Eliot shifted on the bed until he landed on his back and felt it loosen up as he relaxed into the mattress. It felt so good to lie down after working so tirelessly through the day. His body was exhausted.

His mind, though, was wide awake.

It had been a warm day, unseasonably so for this time of year in Fillory, and Quentin had bullied him into getting up early to make the most of it. He’d been reluctant and vocal about it, but the truth was that they had plenty of chores that they’d been putting off due to the bad weather.

He did start to feel good about once he actually got stuck into it, even if he’d continued to complain about it for Quentin’s benefit. The morning saw new stakes set in the garden, a ridiculous amount of weeds pulled up, the hinge on the cottage door fixed, their water stock replenished from the river. He’d rounded the corner of the cottage with the freshly filled barrel floating in front of him when Quentin had stepped out in front of him, letting out a yelp as he jumped back in surprise.

Eliot had stopped the barrel short in order to stop it from taking out Quentin, and in his effort to not spill it all over Quentin, he’d overcompensated and ended up drenched as the water splashed out of the barrel and into his face. Quentin’s shocked laughter had turned his frustration into reluctant amusement, and he’d set the barrel on the ground to pull off his wet shirt without thinking twice about it. Quentin had stared at his bare, wet chest for a full ten seconds before he’d flushed and looked away, and —

Well, that had been a thing.

A thing that he hadn't been able to stop thinking about all day. They’d spent their afternoon on a mosaic pattern, and Eliot had busied himself trying not to watch Quentin to see if he was watching him.

They'd tumbled into bed not long after dinner, both of them too exhausted to stay up. Except now he was kicking himself for not waiting up just for a little, just to take care of this itch underneath his skin that had lingered ever since he’d caught the heat in Quentin’s eyes as he’d looked at him.

He could get up. Would Quentin know what he was doing? Of course he'd know.

Was Quentin contemplating the same thing? He knew he wasn't asleep either. Was his body doing that thing where it found a second wind right when it had time to rest? Or… Was he having the same problem Eliot was? Namely, a growing erection as the thought of Quentin lying side by side with him, thinking about the way he’d looked at him earlier, thinking about Quentin thinking about his naked torso in the early spring sun.

If Quentin was worked up about it too, would he… would he take matters into his own hands again? Right here?

But what was to say that desire had caused his reaction anyway? Quentin had been a little stilted that afternoon, but his natural state was awkward, so that didn’t mean anything.

Eliot lay awake in the dark, listening to Quentin's breathing. Waiting for it to change. Hoping that it would.

Minutes trickled by before it occurred to him that maybe Quentin was waiting for him to start.

Which was ridiculous.

But… what if he was? He tried to ignore the flood of longing that ran through him at the thought. He was fairly confident that the crush he’d had on Quentin since he’d first seen him wasn’t a secret. It had never really gone away but ebbed and flowed through the years, something that was just a part of him now. He was currently at an odd plateau where it felt warm and steady from the constant proximity and the mutual undertaking and the familiarity of their friendship, but also like it was burning like a hot spark, from the snatches of bare skin that he caught every now and then, from the flirty banter that they exchanged on the regular, from the soft dazed look on his face when he woke up and the knowledge that he was the only one who got to see that part of him.

But none of that meant that Quentin held any interest in him, sexually or otherwise. Not the way his eyes lit up when he smiled at him, or darkened like when he had seen him earlier today. Of course Quentin was horny. It was only the two of them for miles, and no eligible women until the town an hour and a half’s walk away. There was a particularly delightful farmer who came into town for the market regularly with a broad face and a wicked month, but Eliot hadn't found time to visit him on the last few trips he’d made for supplies, and he didn't know if there was anyone who Quentin visited there when it was his turn to make his trips into town.

Well, whether Quentin was hard and aching and wondering or not didn't make his own erection go away. Eliot listened carefully, but Quentin’s breathing seemed to have evened out a little so maybe he was asleep after all. The possibility was enough that it shook away the remaining hesitation, and Eliot rolled onto his side with his back to Quentin. He wasn’t in the mood for slow and subtle, not tonight, and if he was careful he could be more vigorous with it without disturbing the bed or the blanket. He let the blanket drape between them so that he wouldn’t be tugging on it with every moment and then stilled, letting his heart rate slow before he started, waiting another moment to see if he could catch Quentin awake.

Eliot reached for the waistband of his pants, and then froze at the dip of the bed beside him. Without the rain tonight, he could hear the rustle of movement, the quiet whisper of skin on skin, and he squeezed his eyes shut with the knowledge that yes, Quentin was definitely awake and had already started.

Slipping his thumb under his waistband, he pulled his pants down just enough to free himself and closed his hand around his cock, exhaling sharply. He was so hard already, and he smeared his thumb through the wetness pooling at the tip, trying to tell himself that he wasn’t listening to every hitch in Quentin’s breathing behind him. Angling his arm so as not to disturb the blanket more than he had to, he stroked himself quickly, fighting the urge to thrust forward into his fist. He gripped tightly at the pillow with his other hand, pressing his face into it to muffle his gasp as he felt the pleasure building quickly, his thoughts full of the want in Quentin’s eyes earlier and — fuck, whether he would look at him like that now if he rolled over and reached out for him, if he stroked him swift and sure like it sounded Quentin was doing to himself right now, if —

His orgasm hit him hard and fast, his hips jerking with the force of it and a whimper falling from his lips that he couldn’t hold back, too loud for the pillow to quieten. His hand tightened around himself, his whole body shivering as he stroked himself once, twice more, until he stopped spilling onto his fingers. Immediately casting the clean up spell, he slumped against the bed with his hand flat on the mattress, trying to pant quietly as he waited for Quentin to say something, to react, to call him out for drawing too much attention to himself.

Instead, he heard a gasp, and another, and another, and felt Quentin’s long shudder through the mattress.

**IV.**

Eliot squeezed his fist tightly around his cock at the sound of Quentin’s quiet moan.

He couldn’t believe that this was happening again. He hadn’t even meant to — half asleep, he’d rolled onto his back, adjusting himself in the process, and had frozen when he’d heard Quentin’s choked off breath. He’d lain there, silent, his hand on his slowly filling cock, knowing he couldn’t, he shouldn’t —

But here he was, slowly jerking himself off to the sound of Quentin doing the same beside him.

They couldn’t keep pretending that this wasn’t happening, could they? Apparently they could. It had been maybe three weeks since that first time, and nothing had changed outside of this room. Quentin continued to joke and laugh and smile at him, continued to sulk and curse and go quiet for long periods of time. There was no tension between them except for what Eliot created when he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t going insane, no change of the familiarity between them.

_This_ was different, though. Quentin’s noises still sounded muffled, but only barely — to be quiet, not to be unheard, and for every gasp or sigh there was a more throaty sound, a moan or a groan that shook Eliot to his core. Quentin shifted on the bed, and Eliot imagined him thrusting up slightly into his hand, bit back his own groan at the sound Quentin made in time with his movements. He could — he could reach out and touch him and it would change everything, even just the brush of his knee against his thigh if he spread his legs, the connection of elbows as they stroked themselves. There was no space between them, merely inches, and it would take nothing at all to reach out and touch him.

He was so close, every sound Quentin made winding him tighter — but he didn’t want this to end, to stop hearing Quentin like this. He forced himself to calm down, stroking himself slower but that wasn’t any better. The firm, deliberate brush of his fingers along his underside and lingering underneath the head causing his breath to catch, and he couldn’t stop the broken noise that came from the back of his throat.

Or maybe he could have. But he didn’t.

Quentin came first, his moan sounding out into the quiet night. Throwing his head back, Eliot lost himself in the sound as he continued to stroke himself, speeding up again as he chased his release, knowing that Quentin was hearing the increased pace of his breathing. He let himself voice it, just a little, even as Quentin stilled, breathing heavily. He was just lying there, listening to Eliot teeter on the brink of orgasm as he calmed down from his own, and that was what pushed him over the edge.

He didn’t hold back his stuttered moan as he spilled all over his stomach.

Let Quentin hear him.

**V.**

Barely five minutes had passed after Eliot went to bed before he heard footsteps right outside the door. He barely had time to pull the blanket up over himself before it opened, and he bit down hard on his lower lip, trying to breathe slowly through his nose as Quentin slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.

His heart raced in his chest, the prospect of almost being caught spiking his adrenaline — and making his dick twitch in his hand. He’d only just started, his sleep pants caught around his thighs, his cock still filling. He had assumed that he’d have enough time to rub one out before Quentin came to bed.

Apparently not.

There was barely enough light to see even with Eliot’s eyes already adjusted to the darkness, and he could tell by the way that Quentin stumbled through the room that everything was pitched dark for him. Still, he kept his hand still against his stomach, keeping his erection trapped beneath it so that it didn’t tent the blanket. A sliver of moonlight peeked in through the edges of the shutters now that the nights were getting warmer, and he didn’t want to risk Quentin catching him in the act.

He lay still as Quentin moved around the room, as he slowly shed the day’s clothing and dropped it carelessly in a pile on the floor on his side of the bed. Cool air touched his skin when Quentin lifted the blanket, and he forced himself not to move as he crawled underneath it. He shifted a little, clearly taking a moment to get comfortable, and then let out a long, contented sigh as he relaxed on his back.

Eliot stared up at the ceiling, trying to make his brain function. Why had he come in so soon? Quentin couldn’t have known specifically that he was going to bed first tonight to jerk off. Maybe he was just tired and didn’t want to wait up on the chance that Eliot was indulging in a little bit of self care. He wasn’t going to hold it against Quentin if he wanted to sleep.

The blanket pulled a little, and Quentin let out a long breath, long and low and satisfied, and… maybe that wasn’t it at all.

Slowly, Eliot let his palm move over his cock, rubbing at it lightly with the flat of his palm and suppressing the shiver that worked through him at the friction. Closing his eyes, he reached a lower, brushing his fingers over his balls, massaging them gently, and then a little firmer. He had been planning to finger himself tonight, craving the stretch of penetration and bemoaning the loss of his sex toy collection, but there was no way he could manage that now without drawing too much attention to himself.

Instead, he smoothed his hand back up his cock, rubbing at it slowly for a few seconds before he wrapped his fingers around it and started to stroke it. He was ninety five percent sure that the sound Quentin made before was him touching himself but even if it wasn’t, he obviously wasn’t against doing this in general. If he didn’t join in, then Eliot would stop.

He didn’t want to stop.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the fast whisper of skin as Quentin began to touch himself in earnest, and then let out a quiet whine as the knowledge sent a deep and primal rush through him. He listened to Quentin’s quickening breaths, drinking in every sound he made. He _had_ to have known that Eliot would still be awake, and very possibly jerking off, and he’d come in anyway, started touching himself immediately… It was too much, it was fucking _absurd_ that this was happening _again_, that this was maybe deliberate, that Quentin… that maybe those sounds were for him, maybe just a little, maybe —

The mattress moved sharply, and Quentin’s moan was immediately followed by a breathless, gasping laugh and _holy fucking shit._

Eliot was so hard he didn’t think he could stand it, and he stroked himself frantically, desperate for release. He was slick with precum, and the closer he got, the harder it became to stop his hips from jerking up into his fist. Heat burst through him as he started to come, and the groan that was pulled from his chest was so loud, so unbridled that he clapped his right hand over his mouth to muffle it as best as he could, his alarm only adding to the pleasure that shocked through him again and again. His hand dropped down to grip onto his shoulder as he continued to come, bucking up into his hand and oh_ fuck_, _there’s nothing subtle about this_, he thought giddiliy, no hiding just how completely wrecked he was as he heard Quentin’s moans stutter beside him, heard his “_Oh, oh — ohhh, El, oh —”_

Feeling his stomach drop, Eliot lifted his hand from his still-twitching cock and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, trying to keep his heavy breathing quiet. He was trembling as he listened intently to Quentin’s moans as they settled into soft little gasps before he let out a long exhale. Quentin’s muttered clean up spell was slow and languid, and he let out a satisfied hum as he relaxed into the bed, as though he hadn’t just completely ruined Eliot.

He slowly forced his body to move, to cast the spell and pull his pants up over his hips, his skin still tingling with his orgasm and his head swimming. He felt like he was moving in a dream. Quentin rolled over onto his side, curled up and facing away from him, and Eliot turned to face him. He could make out the edges of his silhouette, the rise and fall of his torso as he breathed, the movement as he turned onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow.

_Had he really just?_

No.

No, of course not.

He’d misheard. He’d misunderstood the whole situation, obviously. Quentin had thought that Eliot was asleep, hadn’t been able to hear him over his own pleasure. Or if he had, it was just a kinky little voyeurism thing, that was all. He definitely hadn’t moaned Eliot’s name when he’d come.

And even if it had, it didn’t mean anything.

But he hadn’t.

So it didn’t matter.

Quentin’s breathing evened out, but Eliot was wide awake.

**+1**

It was a warm night, unseasonably so, and moonlight spilled into the room through the open window, casting a silver sheen over the bed and the rest of the room. Eliot wasn’t sure if they had left it open on purpose or whether they had both just forgotten to close it, but it would be bright in here once the sun rose, and he debated getting up to close the shutters. They were both much earlier risers than they used to be back on Earth, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to be awake with the breaking of dawn.

But if he closed the shutters, then he wouldn’t be able to see Quentin’s erection tenting the blanket.

The blanket was up around Eliot’s chest, but Quentin had always been a space heater in bed and he’d pulled the covers down to hang just above his hips. Eliot’s eyes should be closed, he should be trying to sleep, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering over him, over his flat stomach and his broad chest, his small nipples dark in the moonlight, the way his hand curled loosely as it rested on his belly. He drank in the sight of him, but his eyes kept returning to his cock, standing hard and proud and so far untouched by Quentin, and he felt his growing in response.

_Fuck it_, he thought, and reached down to palm himself under the blanket. If Quentin’s eyes were open, he’d be able to see it. His eyes tried to flutter closed at the touch but he kept them open, watching Quentin closely. The thought sent another rush through him, _do it, Quentin, I can see how hard you are, please…_ He rolled his hips up into his hand, daring him to move, to react, to join in.

He was fully hard by the time Quentin slipped his hand underneath the blanket to touch himself, and the relief that flooded through Eliot made his head spin. This was so much _more_, that he could see him in the moonlight, that Quentin could see him too, that they were doing this… and the relief quickly sparked a roaring fire inside him as he watched Quentin’s hand move slowly up and down over himself under the blanket.

Tearing his eyes away to look down himself, at the similar movement of his own hand, he thought about how the slow drag of his fingers over the smooth skin of his cock felt, the shiver that ran through him as he lingered at the head, pressing a little harder with his fingers before he stroked right back down to the base again.

Quentin was feeling those same things right now. Taking a deep breath, Eliot closed his eyes and let himself imagine it. The way Quentin would twitch and tremble under his own touch, how tight his grip might be. He ran his thumb over the wet slit and pictured Quentin doing the same, thrilling at the feel of it and imagining Quentin feeling it too.

When he opened his eyes, Quentin’s fist was moving faster, and his mouth went dry at the sight of it, his hips lifting as he sought more friction. Gasping, he glanced up before he could stop himself — and looked right into Quentin’s eyes.

Eliot froze, his whole body stiffening under Quentin’s gaze. It sent a shock of desire right through him, because _how long had he been watching him for?_ And Quentin hadn’t stopped — he could still hear the sound of him stroking his cock, see the movement out of the corner of his eye.

It was a few long, tense seconds before Quentin's hand finally stilled. He blinked at him a few times, his lips parting slightly. Eliot’s heart was beating in his throat as they stared at each other, his cock hot and heavy in his hand. He took in the details of Quentin’s face, the aroused haze in his eyes. 

Eliot’s hand moved of its own accord when Quentin licked his lips, flexing around his cock before stroking up to the tip, and he couldn’t stop the grunt that came from the back of his throat. He’d never felt more exposed in his life, calling out his pleasure for Quentin’s ears, undeniable and all-consuming, and he felt invincible, _inevitable_, as Quentin’s eyes widened in response.

He thought Quentin was the first one to move but it didn’t really matter, did it, because by the time he’d rolled onto his side and was reaching for him, Quentin’s hand was already on his shoulder and pulling him closer. Eliot’s found the back of his neck, and then — _oh_, Quentin’s mouth was on his, kissing him with so much longing that he went dizzy with it. His body acted before his mind caught up with it, parting Quentin’s lips with his own and then moaning into his mouth when he opened up so readily for him, pressing his whole body into his.

He felt the hard line of Quentin’s cock against his stomach when he threw a leg over his hip, and went with him eagerly when he rolled onto his back, pulling him with him until he was nestled between his legs. Quentin’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him in tight against him, his whole body shifting against him as his mouth moved against his hungrily. Eliot grinded down on him automatically and felt Quentin’s hips lift against his, their cocks rubbing against each other through their thin pants and _oh fuck, Quentin_.

His chest burning, Eliot broke the kiss and pulled back, just a little, just to breathe, but that breath caught in his throat when Quentin leaned up to mouth along Eliot’s jaw. One of his hands slid up to twist his fingers through the hair at the back of Eliot’s head, and he shook when Quentin moaned against his skin. This was… this was too much, this… were they really just lying side by side, playing this stupid game merely minutes ago, and now Quentin was… He gasped as Quentin rocked up into him again, the fingers of his other hand digging in tightly to the skin above his hip as he moved.

They’d lived together for months, had _shared the same bed_ for months, and Quentin had never given any indication… “Wait,” he gasped, and felt Quentin freeze beneath him. “What… is this what you want?”

Quentin squirmed up against him, his hand tightening in his hair as he leaned up into him. “Please,” he gasped against his lips.

“_Fuck_,” Eliot murmured as he bent his head to kiss him with all of the desire that had pumped through his veins for the last few weeks, the last few years. When he pulled back, his head was spinning. “What do you want?” He would give him anything.

The desperate little sound that Quentin made caused his breath to catch in his throat. “Touch me, just —”

He cut off in a moan as Eliot reached between them, slipping his hand underneath the waistband of his loose sleep pants and closing his hand around him, hot and thick and full. Getting his knees underneath him, Eliot let him buck up into his hand, swallowing his whimper. Christ, to _touch him _like this. He was already wet at the tip, and Eliot’s mouth watered with want to taste him. He'd thought about this so much over the past few weeks — what it would feel like to have Quentin in his hand instead of himself. It was so much better than any drunk-hazed memory.

Quentin turned his head enough to break the kiss, his chest moving deeply against Eliot’s as he gasped for air. “Oh my god. This is all I’ve been able to think about since… since that first time.”

_Holy shit._

And holy shit, as both of Quentin’s hands slid down his body to catch his pants at the hips, pulling them down his thighs. When his fingers brushed against his shaft, surprisingly tentative, he felt like he was about to jump out of his skin. His fingers wandered up to the head, teasing it, and by the time his fingers circled his cock and started to stroke it Eliot was trembling with it. “All you’ve been thinking about?” he asked, capturing Quentin’s mouth with his until he moaned again, just because —

Because that was apparently a thing that Quentin wanted him to _do_.

“Well…” Quentin managed, almost coyly, when Eliot gave him room to breathe.

Delight bubbled up in Eliot’s chest, and he didn’t hold back the laughter as he kissed Quentin once, twice more before he started trailing a path down his body. Quentin whined when he moved down so far that he couldn’t reach Eliot’s cock anymore, and then gasped when he made it up to him by taking his nipple between his lips and flicking it with his tongue.

Eliot kept his hand around Quentin, letting him rock up into his grip rather than stroking him as he worked his way down his stomach, kissing every inch of skin that he’d admired in the moonlight earlier. Pulling Quentin's pants the rest of the way down, he guided his legs apart and settled in between them, sucking on the skin below his hip, just above his pubic hair.

“Oh my god,” Quentin whimpered, and Eliot took him into his mouth.

Closing his lips around the head, he sucked on it gently, working the flat of his tongue over the tip until Quentin's hands found his hair. He didn't try to push him down, just twisted his fingers through the strands and held on. When Eliot sank down to take more of him in, Quentin let out his breath in a disbelieving huff, his hips stuttering on the bed as he clearly tried to hold himself back.

Eliot took him deeper, until he hit the back of his throat, and then held still for long enough for Quentin to get the hint that it was okay, that he was okay, that he could take it. _Make me take it._ Pulling back, he looked up to meet Quentin's burning gaze as he licked over his cockhead. His mouth was hanging open, and he stared at him like he couldn't believe this was happening. Eliot couldn't believe it either. Steadying Quentin's cock with one hand, he slid it back and forth across his lower lip before bending his head to wrap his lips around him once more, just for a second, just to hear him moan with it. When he pulled back again, Quentin looked _wrecked._ Eliot pressed a kiss to the tip and watched his eyelids flutter. "Fuck my mouth," he told him, and leaned down to close his mouth around him once more.

“Oh shit,” Quentin cried, and then, “_Eliot,” _and Eliot moaned as Quentin thrust up into his mouth, hesitantly at first and then a little faster, broken little sounds falling from him all the while. His fingers tightened in Eliot’s hair, flexing every few seconds. The grip of one of his hands loosened, and Eliot felt the brush of fingers down the side of his face, a shockingly tender touch. Quentin’s fingers curled around his jaw, and Eliot let him tilt his head back, looking up at him through his lashes as he slid over his tongue. The longing in Quentin’s eyes was unguarded, even like this, and Eliot knew that he couldn’t let this be the only time. “El,” Quentin whispered, and then threw his head back against the pillow, his hips jerking up.

Closing his eyes again, Eliot lost himself in the feeling of being used so deliciously, of being used by _Quentin_. He could tell that he had been careful with him so far, but after a few minutes his grip became firmer on his head, his thrusts a little longer, and Eliot moaned at the tease as he brushed against the back of his throat. He could feel the tension all through him, the restraint as he still tried to hold himself in check, but didn’t he know that all Eliot wanted was to give him everything he wanted and watch him fall apart for it?

Setting his hands flat against Quentin’s hips, Eliot pushed him down against the bed, holding him still. He took a deep breath, let it out and then took another, and Quentin was already trembling when he sank back down over him. He made a desperate little whine as Eliot felt him at the back of his throat, but it was the sharp, shuddering exhale when he swallowed him down that made Eliot dizzy with want. “Fu — El, fuck,” Quentin gasped, his voice pitching high and hysterical, and he _sobbed_ when Eliot brought his hand up to massage lightly at his balls, high and tight. “El… Eliot… it’s… _oh fuck_.” Quentin whimpered when Eliot swallowed around him. His hands fluttered over his head, disappeared for a moment before settling there again, stroking his hair back frantically. He swallowed again, and Quentin let out a panicky little laugh. “El, I’m — I’m gonna —_ Eliot_ —”

Pulling back, Eliot drew in a deep breath through his nose as he sucked firmly at Quentin’s cockhead, moaning at the taste of him as he started stroking his length. He rolled his tongue against his underside, urging him closer, lightening the pressure of his other hand on Quentin’s him. He jerked up immediately, his hips moving in short thrusts until his body stiffened, his back arching up off the bed, his cries loud and broken as his cock pulsed in Eliot’s mouth, his release spilling salty over his tongue.

Slumping back against the bed, Quentin rolled his hips up with a tired moan, and Eliot reluctantly pulled back from his softening cock, suddenly becoming much more aware of his own. He started to reach down, to take the edge off, but then Quentin’s hands were on his shoulders, tugging him upwards, and his relief that he wasn’t pushing him away instead now that he’d gotten what he’d wanted made it impossible to resist him. Not that he’d ever wanted to, anyway.

Slipping his pants down his legs and tossing them… somewhere, Eliot got his knees beneath him and shifted forward to lie on top of him, beside him, anywhere as long as he was touching him. Instead, Quentin sat up in the middle of the bed and pulled him into his lap. The soft wonder in his eyes made Eliot’s heart do a pitiful little flip, and it was too much, too much, _never stop._ Every inch of his skin was on fire, but nowhere more so than where Quentin was touching him: the warmth of Quentin’s hands on his ass as he pulled him in tight, his thighs underneath his, the tender press of his mouth against his as he kissed him, slow and deep and sweet.

And _filthy_. Quentin might be in a post-orgasmic haze, but Eliot was so wound up he couldn’t even think past the press of Quentin’s body against his own. He wrapped his arms around Quentin’s shoulders, holding him close and thrilling in the bare skin of his chest against his, the friction from his stomach against his cock when he rocked forward. Quentin’s hands ran up and down his back, somehow soothing him and coiling that tension higher all at once.

He moaned when one hand dropped between them, his fingers brushing along the length of his cock before he wrapped his hand around him. “Quentin,” he gasped against his lips, and then moaned again when he started to stroke him. “Yes, just — like that, shit —”

Quentin turned his head, brushing his lips along his jaw, and Eliot craned his neck to let him kiss his throat, his whole body arching into it. His hands clung to Quentin’s shoulders, thrusting up into his hand. “I thought about this,” Quentin whispered into his skin, “about touching you instead of myself. Not just when we were in here together. Every time. Did… did you?”

_Oh, fuck_. He wasn’t so far gone not to hear the hint of desperation in Quentin’s voice. “When we were together, yes,” he said tightly. God, he _needed_ Quentin to know how much he wanted this. “When we weren’t I’d think — about other things.”

“What things?”

His hand had slowed on his cock. Eliot rocked his hips forward, and groaned when Quentin’s fingers tightened around him, the pad of one finger pressing right under his glans and sending a shock through him. “All of the other things I wanted to do to you.”

“Fuck,” Quentin breathed against his neck, and started stroking him faster again. “You’ll have to show me next time.”

“Shit, Q.” _Next time_. The words echoed in his mind, his only thought as he was consumed by the tight grip of Quentin’s hand around him. He pulled him back to kiss him again, an artless press of his open mouth on Quentin’s, but Quentin moaned into it just the same. _Next time_. He was so close, so painfully close, but there would be a _next time, _they could do all of this again, all of this and all of the other things that Eliot had dreamed about. “Q,” he groaned as the thought sent him trembling, as the steady movement of Quentin’s hand pulled him closer and closer to the edge. He dropped his head to Quentin’s shoulder, turning his face to press it against his neck, breathing him in, surrounded by him. “Oh fuck — fuck, I — Quentin —”

“Eliot,” Quentin murmured, and then he was lost in the white heat rolling through him, jerking erratically into Quentin’s fist as he spilled into it. Eliot cried out against his neck, clutching him tightly to him as his shudders turned to shivers, while Quentin continued to stroke him through it until he slumped against him, spent.

He felt Quentin’s lips against his shoulder before he pushed him back a little. Eliot bit back his instinctive protest against any space between them at all when he heard him muttering a familiar spell, and in the next instant he was free of come and sweat.

Laughing under his breath, Eliot pushed Quentin back on the mattress, keeping his face buried against his neck when they settled on the bed. Quentin’s arms came tight around his shoulders, one dropping to wrap around his waist, and Eliot laughed again, delighting in the smoothness of Quentin’s skin under his, the prick of his beard growth against his lips. “What?” Quentin asked, smiling at him uncertainly.

“We were not subtle,” he said, stretching out his legs partly because he wanted to but also to feel Quentin’s skin against his. “At all.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be subtle,” Quentin said, laughter and affront mixing in his voice in a way that had Eliot pulling back to look at him, confused.

“But…” But he’d never given any indication that this was something he’d wanted. They’d been literally been masturbating in bed side by side for the last few weeks and he’d never given any sign that he actually wanted anything from him.

He thought about pulling away, about giving Quentin some space to get his thoughts out, but… but that would only have been an excuse to hide. Quentin’s arms were warm around him, his smile true if a bit sheepish, and he felt his urge to flee fading fast. He could panic about how easy it felt to be with him later.

For now, he let his eyes dance over Quentin’s face, revelling in the feeling of his skin against his and the fact that that was a thing that he might not hate for him to do. “I didn’t know this was something you wanted,” he said softly. _If I’d known, we’d have done this a lot sooner. Maybe. If I’d found courage close to yours._

Quentin laughed. “I’ve been making moves on you for the past month.”

Shaking his head slowly, Eliot stared at him, stunned. All of those nights where he’d wondered if Quentin even realised that he could hear him… “That’s what this was? The whole time?”

“Not the first few times.” It was hard to tell in the dim moonlight, but Eliot was fairly sure that he was blushing. Eliot was lying naked on top of him, and he was blushing at the thought of jerking off beside him. _You goddamn idiot_, he thought, and brushed Quentin’s hair back from his face. Quentin smiled so easily it made his heart hurt. “But then. You did it too, and I thought… if there was a…” Quentin dropped his eyes as his smile faltered. “A chance you might want me.” His throat moved as he swallowed, and when he looked back up at him after a pause, he looked as nervous as he’d ever seen him. And determined to face it anyway. “Then I was going to give it a shot.”

_You brave, stupid, wonderful fool_. Eliot wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or to Quentin. He couldn’t remember a time where he _hadn’t_ wanted Quentin, and he’d been so sure that he’d known that.

Or rather, sure enough that it had been an easy excuse not to reach for it.

Quentin hadn’t known, and he’d taken the shot anyway. Boy, had he taken the shot. His lips parted when Eliot started to laugh, his brow furrowing anxiously, and Eliot reached out to smooth it. “I can’t decide if that’s the best or the worst seduction technique I’ve ever seen.”

Quentin smiled at him tentatively for a moment before his expression slipped into an adorably self-conscious smugness. “It worked, didn’t it?”

And he couldn’t argue with that, could he? Still not quite able to believe it, Eliot shook his head, grinning at him ruefully. “I guess it did,” he said, closing the distance between them to press their lips together, swallowing Quentin’s breathless laugh, and every inch of him still thrilling with _next time._


End file.
